


Never Outside

by sarcasm_and_sabres



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 23:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_and_sabres/pseuds/sarcasm_and_sabres
Summary: There's not really such a thing as a retired spy.





	Never Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Unfortunately, I don't own The Man from UNCLE.

“Napoleon? I am home,” Illya calls out, pushing open the door with the hand not holding several bags of groceries. When there’s no immediate response, Illya sets the bags down and resists the urge to pull out his gun. Napoleon’s probably just taking a nap. They’re retired, there’s absolutely no reason to be on edge.

Yet Illya can’t ignore his instincts after so many years, padding silently across the house, anticipation growing with each empty room he finds. The last room he makes it to is the bedroom, where the door’s slightly ajar. Which doesn’t necessarily mean something’s wrong, but it gets Illya’s hackles up. 

The second Illya nudges the door open, it’s obvious that something’s wrong. The bedside table is knocked over, the lamp that had been atop it shattered. The rest of the room is in similar disarray, but the worst is the blood spatter on the wall. It could just as easily be the blood of one of the men who had attacked Napoleon, except for the sinking feeling in Illya’s gut that his partner is injured.

No matter, though. Napoleon’s shoes weren’t in the hall when Illya walked in, which means he should still be wearing them. It takes Illya less than two minutes to get the device he uses to track Napoleon’s trackers, to contact the leaders of the spy organizations he’s no longer officially a part of, and to ignore the order to wait for backup in favor of stocking up on extra weapons and leaving immediately. Who knows how long Napoleon has, and since Gaby can obviously not provide her usual backup from beyond the grave, Illya will save Napoleon alone.

Despite how many things have changed since them, the circumstances feel almost like their very first mission again. The trackers in Napoleon’s shoes, going at it alone, but now instead of professional courtesy and curiosity about the smooth American, all Illya feels is how desperately he needs Napoleon back. They’re not actually married, of course, but as far as both of them are concerned they might as well be. And Illya has no intention of doing any of this without the man he’s loved for over half his life.

Speed limits and traffic laws are nothing to an ex-KGB and UNCLE agent, so Illya makes excellent time, the kilometers disappearing swiftly beneath his wheels. Napoleon’s location has not changed, so Illya just presses the accelerator flat to the floor and prays to a god he has not believed in since he was a child that he will not be too late. It’s a prayer he’s offered up to the universe dozens of times since the first time Napoleon was kidnapped from his side, and he hasn’t been failed yet. 

In his brief check in with the people running what had once been UNCLE, they had revealed that the location Illya had was in a set of abandoned warehouses. Illya’s trackers are more than sophisticated enough to pinpoint exactly which one Napoleon is in, but stealth may be required. Always better to err on the side of caution in a situation like this.

Illya parks on the street a block over from the warehouses, far enough over so that he can avoid detection but close enough that he can get Napoleon to the car quickly if medical attention is necessary. From there, it’s a simple matter of scaling the fire escape on a building in a nearby alley and darting across the rooftops towards the warehouses, cloaked by the growing darkness as night starts to fall in earnest. 

Checking the tracker one last time, Illya determines Napoleon to be in the middle of the three warehouses, on what looks to be the second floor. In the darkness, dressed in black and crouched on a black rooftop, Illya knows he’d be barely visible at worst, if someone cared to look. Too many poorly trained spies and criminals always forget to look up.

From the first rooftop, Illya stops and pulls out a small set of binoculars, pointing them at the brightly lit window in the second building. He can’t see much, save for a few backs and a very familiar set of well-polished shoes, attached to ankles that are tied to the legs of a chair. So Napoleon is there, and judging by the body language of the men Illya can see, is making a nuisance of himself as per usual. 

Now for the most difficult part, the actual rescuing. If it was just a matter of taking down the men in the warehouse, Illya would shoot a number of them from the roof before going in, but without being able to see everyone he could spook them and cause someone to put a bullet between Napoleon’s eyes. Obviously not an option. He could break in through that window and be in a better position to defend Napoleon, but there are still too many unknown variables. The front door is similarly not an option, which leaves…

Illya’s roof has a number of air ducts, which after a cursory examination appear to open easily. Excellent. It’s go time. 

Illya lands neatly on the next roof, still light as a cat despite how stiff his joints get these days, carefully prying up the air vent closest to where he had seen Napoleon. Someone must be looking favorably down upon him, as the vent is miraculously oiled and makes hardly a sound as Illya lifts it up and sets it ever so gently on the roof next to him.

“—afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Napoleon’s voice filters up, smooth as ever. It’s followed by a grunt of disbelief, then a rapid response in a language Illya cannot identify. Irksome, but ultimately of no matter.

A look down into the warehouse reveals that Napoleon and his captors are clustered in a cubicle style room, with only six men surrounding him. Quite possibly more elsewhere in the building, but not close enough that they could get in and kill Napoleon before Illya could kill them. If he goes in now, there will be very little danger to Napoleon.

Normally, Illya would wait and check the rest of the building more thoroughly, but the sweat on Napoleon’s face and visible bloodstain on his light blue shirt are telling Illya that he doesn’t have time to waste, not if he wants Napoleon to walk out of here with him.

Illya pulls out two guns, taking aim even as he prepares to launch himself through the window. Napoleon is laughing now, a harsh, bitter sound so at odds with his true laugh. The only thing that matters, though, is getting Napoleon back, so Illya aims and fires, once, twice, three times with each gun, and there are half a dozen dead men and Napoleon is grinning up at Illya, blue eyes so bright and so beautiful.

“I’m quite pleased to see you, Peril,” Napoleon says as Illya jumps down, checking quickly that all the immediate threats are gone before going to Napoleon. 

“You doing alright, Cowboy?” Illya asks, stowing his guns and pulling a knife so he can cut Napoleon free, barely hiding his wince at the amount of blood puddled beneath him. “Are there more of them?”

“No, just those,” Napoleon says, and there’s a strange note to his voice that makes Illya pause in his task to search Napoleon’s face.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you need medical attention?” Illya asks, dropping his gaze back to Napoleon’s bound wrists so his partner cannot see the look on his face, as fears he already knows the answer. There will be no getting to a doctor in time for Napoleon, not this time.

Napoleon knows him too well to miss Illya’s trembling hands, though. “I just need you, Illya,” he says simply, reaching his freed hand to rest on Illya’s cheek. “And I want to taste the fresh air one last time.”

“Do not talk like that,” Illya says brusquely, freeing Napoleon’s ankles with two harsh swipes of his knife. He sheathes the blade and reaches to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt, to see how bad the wound is, but a clammy hand grabs his before he can.

“There is nothing you can do,” Napoleon says, calmly, far too calmly for a dying man. For a man who has spent his life surviving, he seems too at peace now. “Please, Illya.”

Forever weak to Napoleon’s wishes, Illya drops his hand and instead brushes a kiss over Napoleon’s forehead, apologizing softly before lifting Napoleon as gently as possibly into his arms. There’s a choked gasp that Napoleon can’t hold back, and Illya apologizes profusely as he cradles Napoleon.

The outside isn’t much nicer than the inside of the warehouse had been, but Napoleon stares up at the dark sky like it’s a priceless painting. Illya would know, he’s seen Napoleon steal a number of them. This close to the city, the stars aren’t even visible, and Illya has the sudden irrational desire to bring the stars back for Napoleon.

“Napoleon?” Illya asks quietly, brushing back a sweaty lock of hair that had fallen into Napoleon’s face as he sits on the cold ground, Napoleon still cradled in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Illya.” Napoleon’s gaze shifts slowly from the sky to Illya’s face, blue eyes shockingly bright in his pale face.

“Do not be sorry, моя любовь,” Illya whispers back, leaning forward to kiss Napoleon softly on the lips. “You have nothing for which to apologize. It is my fault, for not getting here in time.”

Napoleon rouses slightly from his dazedness at that, cheeks flushing faintly. “No,” he says, and Illya can hear the determination despite his fading voice. “No, Illya, no. You were in time so many times. My luck just ran out.”

“Cowboy—” Illya says thickly, stroking a thumb over Napoleon’s cheekbone. 

“It’s just my time,” Napoleon says, and there’s peace in his bright eyes. It feels like Illya’s the one who’s been injured, with the stabbing pain in his heart.

“Cowboy, no. You know I’m not good alone,” Illya says. Napoleon reaches a shaking hand up, brushing tears off of Illya’s cheeks. Illya hadn’t even realized he’d been crying. 

“You’ll be fine, Peril. Just-just terrorize some young spies for me and Gaby,” Napoleon says, managing a faint smile. It slips away nearly immediately, as he turns serious again. “Don’t join us too soon. We’ll wait for you.”

“You’ll wait?” Illya asks, holding Napoleon tighter. He’s not sure he believes in an afterlife. He never has before. But if Napoleon will be there, maybe it will be true. Napoleon’s never let him down before.

“I promise,” Napoleon breathes, voice getting weaker by the moment.

“Who would have thought we would end up here,” Illya says, choking out the words around the lump in his throat.

Napoleon smiles, sweet and wistful. “I have no regrets.”

“Nor do I,” Illya admits, swallowing thickly when Napoleon’s eyes start sliding shut. “Cowboy—"

“I love you,” Napoleon whispers, forcing his eyes open again. The lines of pain have smoothed out from his face, leaving just a faint, peaceful smile.

“I love you too,” Illya replies, running his fingers through Napoleon’s sweaty hair. “I will always love you. I will see you again, моя любовь.”

Napoleon’s smile brightens ever so slightly, and he gives one last slight sigh as his eyes slide shut. Instinctively, Illya shifts so he can check for a pulse in Napoleon’s neck. His skin is cold and clammy, and there’s no beat of life beneath it.

“No, Cowboy, no,” Illya whispers, choking on the words. There’s no quick smile in response, no words of reassurance, no quip and affectionate use of the word Peril. None of the spark and brilliance that made him Napoleon. Nothing but an empty husk. 

Illya leans forward, burying his face in Napoleon’s hair as he allows himself to cry. He’s holding his best friend and partner in his arms, but he’ll never truly have Napoleon again.

“Agent Kuryakin?” An unfamiliar voice pulls Illya out of his grief for a moment, and he reaches for his gun, tears still slightly obscuring his vision. It’s his backup. He’d called for backup.

“There are dead hostiles in the warehouse,” Illya tells the young woman in front of him. “I did not search the building for any information on them.”

“And Agent Solo?” she asks.

“He…succumbed to his injuries. I shall take care of him,” Illya says, unwilling to relinquish Napoleon to whoever has taken on the mantle of protecting the world.

To her credit, the agent doesn’t argue. She just nods once to Illya, then gestures for her team to spread out and enter the warehouse. Now that he’s been distracted out of his crying, Illya manages to swallow down his grief enough to stand up, still holding Napoleon. He’s grateful that there’s nobody around, because he really doesn’t need to try to explain to someone why he’s carrying around and loading a body into a car. And God, does it feel wrong to be thinking of Napoleon as nothing but a corpse instead of everything he is. Was. 

If Illya’s being honest, he doesn’t want to live in a world without Napoleon Solo in it. Gaby is gone, Napoleon is gone, and Illya is alone. What is there left for him, without work and his best friends and the man he’s loved for decades?

Illya doesn’t enjoy it, but he does as Napoleon had said and doesn’t join him and Gaby. He watches Napoleon be buried, standing in the rain in a suit that gets soaked by the time the ceremony is over. It was Illya’s nicest suit, too. Napoleon would’ve been horrified. 

Without Napoleon, retirement has no appeal. Illya restrains himself from asking to be put back in field work he’s too old to truly be qualified for, and instead trains new recruits. They annoy him, but he recognizes that half of that is because they lack the skills and qualities he’d become accustomed to in Napoleon and Gaby. But as long as he has nothing else to do, he may as well try to prepare them for the world of espionage.

And when Illya develops a deep, hacking cough that seems to settle through his entire failing body, he can’t bring himself to mind. Even as it gets harder and harder to make it through the day, Illya pushes himself through his work. Napoleon had wanted him to do this, after all. And if Illya wakes up one day and can’t find the strength to get out of bed or to keep his eyes open, well, that’s alright too. As his eyes slide shut, he knows that Napoleon and Gaby will be waiting for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you enjoyed!


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